


CRUEL INTENTIONS | Joe Goldberg (YOU)

by threestrikes



Category: You (TV 2018), You Series - Caroline Kepnes
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, Obsessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threestrikes/pseuds/threestrikes
Summary: ❝ With your perfectly fitted Gucci coat (I assume) and your elegant tangerine dress that screams luxury, and those gorgeous clanking heels that look just as luxurious as your Hermès bag, I'd say you belong someplace else like the Louis Vuitton store and not this bookstore, not my bookstore. With your elegance you make the rest of us look small, but that's okay, I like it. You're my personal Audrey Hepburn circa 1961 and I would watch you have breakfast at Tiffany's whenever you want, I'd even make the best bagels for you, just for you.You look so picturesque. You're my sweet little tangerine dream. ❞copyright © 2019 threestrikes
Relationships: Joe Goldberg/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 134





	1. Tangerine Dream

**WELL** hello there, _you_.

You walk into the bookstore like you own it, like the entirety of the store is yours and all yours to keep forever and how dare you strut in here with that pretty little figure of yours? I know, that's a handful of _yours_ in one sentence because—let's face it—how can one not wish to be yours? I'd want to be yours. Even if I had just seen you for the first time—actually, fuck it, _I am_ yours. From now on, I swear I am. And you probably don't know it yet, but you're mine. The moment you opened that door ever so confidently like your life depended on it, I knew we had a spark and you're meant to be mine and I'm meant to be holding you and just you wait, _just you wait_.

You look around and fully take in the pleasurable sight of books, books, and all of the books and I know deep inside you're gleaming with joy and I know that because I feel the same way having to look at these books literally every single day not to mention having to be surrounded by all of it every second of my living. Must be nice, huh? But not as nice as having you here, you, making your way into my life and finally, _finally_ , you are here.

You reach for your bag, _correction_ , your Hermès Birkin bag, and grab your phone from inside it and start typing away and I can't help but wonder, are you texting someone? And who could that lucky bastard be (not for so long) if you actually are? Or are you (unfortunately, if that's the case) some basic rich kid probably tweeting something like:

_Life's great. At a bookstore atm. #ReadingIsLife #ReadABookBitch_

But hey, it's way too early to judge and anyway, you're too classic to be that kind of girl and I just know you aren't and I'm sorry it's just my brain wandering off to nowhere just as always. Actually, you look _way_ too classic to be stepping into little local bookstores like Mooney's (hello there)—so what is it that caught your attention?

With your perfectly fitted Gucci coat (I assume) and your elegant tangerine dress that screams luxury, and those gorgeous clanking heels that look just as luxurious as your Hermès bag, I'd say you belong someplace else like the Louis Vuitton store and not this bookstore, not my bookstore. With your elegance you make the rest of us look small, but that's okay, I like it. You're my personal Audrey Hepburn circa 1961 and I would watch you have breakfast at Tiffany's whenever you want, I'd even make the best bagels for you, _just for you._

You look so picturesque. You're my sweet little tangerine dream.

I don't know what it is about you because I don't usually like girls like you. Last privileged girl I knew of was Peach (RIP) and I hated her to hell (where I'm sure she is at now) because rich girls are just so self-absorbed and I don't like that but there's something different about you and the way you move and you're not just _some_ rich kid and I can see that. I just have this strong instinct that you're more than that and my instincts are usually 99 percent accurate and now you just got me and I'm your prisoner but that'll have to do because I would love to be your prisoner for however long you want me to be. But wait till I show you who's really in charge and oh are you going to keep wanting more of me.

You finally look up from your phone and due to some unexpected coincidence our eyes meet and God you're so beautiful I just want to tear that Gucci apart (I'm sorry that coat must have cost you a lot) and touch every inch of your skin but I'm guessing you don't want to freak me out (how demure of you) so you instantly break off our little staring game and continue walking around, with your heels clanking in a rhythmic manner—at this point it's just music to my ears.

I watch you make your way to the A—D classics section and just how in the world does a modern, sophisticated young woman like you be interested in classic literature? I don't mean to sound offensive; I promise you it's a genuine assumption, sweet little tangerine dream. But when you entered that door a few minutes ago I imagined you to be a Jojo Moyes kind of girl, or maybe Liane Moriarty—or better yet, Sophie Kinsella because of that Confessions of a Shopaholic vibe—but no, you went straight to the classics and I think I like you even more.

Your beautiful warm blue eyes concentrate on reading each spine and I can't help but wonder, who are you going to buy? Which book is it that you're looking for? Shall I be of assistance? I mean sure, I would love to. I'd give you all the help you need and I'd gladly be of service to you but, I'm going to let you come to me and ask for it.

"Excuse me," a man, probably in his forties, approaches.

Oh, for the love of Christ.

"Hello, sir," I say and offer my assistance, trying to hide the reluctance in my voice.

"Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace? Think you can help me, son?"

"Of course. If you could follow me please."

I internally sigh and worry that what if as I'm helping this man-baby you just decide to walk out of the door because you couldn't find that book you're looking for because you needed my help and I failed you and I'm helping this man-baby instead of you?

"Do you maybe have a newer copy?" he asks me.

Jesus Christ. Quit this man-baby shit and buy the fucking book already!

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, but for that title we're all out."

Actually, we're not, but I just want to get this man-fucking-baby done and over with.

For the record, I love my job. These books aren't going to sell themselves and that's what I'm here for. But you, _you_ are an exception. When you're here I want to lavish you with a hundred percent of my attention because God knows you deserve it, and this man-baby is breaking my concentration but thank goodness we're back at the counter and he's finally paying for his David Foster Wallace that he probably will never finish anyway.

"Have a good day, sir."

I can still hear your heels clanking on the wooden floor, it's a sound of relief—you're still here.

"You too, young man."

Oh, come on, what is taking you so long? And just come to me already—what are you looking for? Come on, you can tell me. Don't you want to acknowledge my help? You're such a tease making me wait for you to come to me for help, for a little assistance. Just do it already, I am waiting.

As you continue looking through the L—P section I notice that your brown hair is past just a few inches below your shoulder and oh must it feel nice to run my hand through it. You're wrapped in just enough jewelry, nothing too much, in fact you look pretty in them and your nails are painted white and just where in the fuck do you work to be able to afford all these? I'm going to have to up my game.

It has been _eleven seconds and twenty-five minutes_ and you're still pacing back and forth through the classics section with your eyes piercing through the rows of books and just which classic fucking novel are you looking for and why is it that you can't just come to me for help? This is obviously my job, I hope you permit me to actually do my job here—a little acknowledgement would do, _Tangerine_.

You know what, fuck it but we'll have to do this on my terms since I don't see you ever asking for my help and this just has to happen because the universe is telling me so. Swiftly, I leave the counter and grab a pen and paper before finally making my way to the classics section and I pass behind you and you don't notice but I do, Tangerine, I do notice the expensive scent of white tea fragrance on you and I try to inhale as much of it as I can. What can I do, it's such a pleasure to take your scent in, to take _you_ in. Now I feel even more connected to you.

I stop walking and decide to stand a few inches from you, pretending to scan the books and act as if I am doing an inventory but you still don't glance at me and you sigh and you take out your phone and God—please stop texting whoever that person is, a little respect please, you're in front of all these books for Pete's sake, Tangerine. But no, you weren't texting, you were on Goodreads skimming through your book list. Goodfuckingreads, Joe! And you have a list, you're not some pretentious bitch going to a bookstore only for aesthetic purposes. You're actually here because you're a reader and can't decide which one to get for yourself on this fine, fine day.

If this were a movie you'd finally look at me and we'd be eye-fucking the shit out of each other but you probably think you're way too regal to be eye-fucking the guy who works at a small local bookstore, and I can't blame you, you're just illimitably perfect and standing close to you—you make me feel so small but in a good way that I can't even manage to explain.

You close your Goodreads app and looked up, scanning the books yet again with the look of pure anxiety on your face and then—and then it happened oh God it really fucking happened. You, at last, looked at me and shot me a quick glance and oh, was that a look of hesitation right there? You're such a sweetheart and I hope you know that you can talk to me any time and I'd gladly be of service, just come to me for help already.

I don't speak but look straight back at you, and just like that you quickly interrupt our eye contact and start to walk away—just what the fuck is the problem? Am I repulsive? You're making me question my insecurities here, Tangerine—but again, eye on the prize. Before you're even out of the aisle I manage to chase you in a very appropriate, gentleman-like gesture and I speak my first words to you, "Excuse me miss, but, is everything alright? You look kind of worried there, so just blink twice if you need help."

 _Fuck._ That was stupid and it's way too early to joke. Get your shit together, Joe!

"Oh, hi," you speak and chuckle a bit which is so fucking cute and your voice sounds like you came straight out of Good Morning America and it just sounds so perfect and eloquent, "I'm so sorry everything's fine, I just didn't want to bother you, I'm just looking for... this book. No worries."

Look, sweetheart, there's no need to apologize because you most certainly aren't a bother and really, someone like you shouldn't be sorry about anything. But you do sound apologetic and you're a good girl and not to mention, you're great at maintaining eye contact. It's okay, you're very pretty and I like looking at you I could stare at you for an entire day.

"Well, can I help you find that book?" I said and I've never been prouder of myself.

You smile and you just look so beautiful and I can say this over and over again but it will never change the fact that even the word 'beautiful' is in itself an understatement to describe you.

"Oh, thanks and since you asked, I'm trying to look for, well—two books actually. Joyce's _Dubliners_ and that Tartt masterpiece everyone's crazy about, _The Secret History_ —which is why I'm now heading to the fiction section because I can't seem to find _Dubliners_ here. So, I thought maybe I can go grab the Tartt one first instead."

You say it like you owe me an explanation—like you're storytelling, and I'm honestly not one to complain.

"Actually, we ran out of copies for the Joyce one but we do have _Secret History_ over on the fiction section."

You sigh and say, "Thank goodness."

I watch as relief take over your pretty face and I can't help but smile, "Follow me."

And then we walk over to the fiction section and I know I'm supposed to keep this professional and shut up but I just can't stop talking to you, "Tartt, _huh_ , fine choice."

"Well, I want to give her a second chance. No offense, but I didn't like _The Goldfinch_ as much as everyone did."

I actually kind of liked that one but in the name of love, instead I say, "I get it, I know. I thought it was a little pretentious."

" _Ugh_ , exactly! You're practically reading my mind!" you explain and I see your face completely lighten up and I _mentally_ punch my fist mid-air, "I mean I get the idea and everything and the plot's not so bad, but there were just some parts that I felt like Tartt was trying too hard to sound like a Dickens novel, you know? Her writing's great but I just thought it was a bit pretentious. But I can see why people loved it, I just don't want to ride in on the hype and pretend that I liked something I actually didn't. Though I'd still give it a 3 out of 5 stars."

Like Beck (RIP), you're patient, you're responsive and you can hold a good conversation. See, I knew you were more than just a typical rich-looking girl. There's actually more to you, Tangerine. I like that.

We get to the fiction section and I hand you _The Secret History_ by Donna Tartt. "Here it is. Donna would love a second chance."

You redden. "Well our friend Donna might get it if she manages to do this book justice," you say and you smile _that_ lovely smile again.

"Can I help you with anything else?"

"Everything's good, I actually have to go catch a meeting in a few minutes so, thank you very much, kind sir."

Look, you didn't have to say that in a very attractive manner it almost seemed like you were trying to flirt but okay, I'll bite. We walk together towards the counter and I could just hold your hand and act like the couple that we _should_ be but I hold myself back. Now I'm standing on a platform behind the counter with you on the other side and you hand me the book and I watch you glance at the bookmarks stacked on top of the counter. Man, I could observe you all day.

"It's sixteen ninety-five. Cash or charge?"

Please say charge. I know you have more than enough cash to cover the payment but I really need to know the name on your card. Please say charge. Please say charge.

"Cash."

Fuck.

Me.

Over.

You grab your wallet and reach for your fucking cash and I have to think fast.

"You know what, why don't you leave your name and contact so we could reach out to you once we get our next batch of orders for _Dubliners_ on Friday? I can reserve a copy for you as soon as we get them, shouldn't take too long."

No, we haven't sent an order request for that Joyce title yet ever since we ran out of copies last week, but Friday is only three days from now and that should buy me enough time to find a copy for you elsewhere. All I need is your name, and of course your number—that was a smooth save, Joe.

I don't know if you can tell that I'm making this up but you put up that pretty smile once again. "Oh, really? You're an angel. I literally can't find a copy anywhere." Whoa, I'm an angel now? Okay, keep talking, sweetheart. I like where this is going.

"Yeah sure no problem," I grab an official-looking notepad for you to write your details on and it's a fucking win for me, "Here."

You hand me the cash and you scribble away and I lose myself in the way you scrawl those letters as if I am being hypnotized but I manage to snap myself back to earth. I, then, put your book in a bag and you return the notepad to me with your neat handwriting on it.

_Valentina Laurent._

Your name is just as captivating as you are, Tangerine. Mind if I call you by your first name now?

"Here—thanks, Valentina. See you on Friday for that James Joyce one?" I give you the bag and I am trying to keep it cool.

You claim your purchase and slightly laugh in a very polite manner, "Yeah, see you Friday, then." I notice you look down on my nametag but you didn't say my name and now you're slowly turning on your back and walking away from the counter, from me, sad.

You're halfway towards the door when I call out, "And Donna's waiting on her second chance." You look back and smile and strut out the door; the clanking of your heels still echoing in my ears.

But what I really want to imply is that I am waiting for _my_ second chance, on Friday, so I could get to know you some more. Just you wait.

You're just so fascinating, Valentina. But who are you behind all those Birkin bags and diamonds? I'm sure you're way deeper than all those overpriced bullshit luxury items, but _how deep_ is the question? Oh, you have no idea how eager I am to find out. You are such a quest. Let's find _you_ out, shall we?


	2. V for Vendetta

**YOU** have two favourite books: _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ by Oscar Wilde and _The Danish Girl_ by David Ebershoff. You have an English degree from Yale and you were the editor of the Yale Daily News when you were in college—okay that's noble, you've impressed me over and above. You like Tchaikovsky and Debussy, and you listen to them to put yourself to sleep. You like comedies and a bit of 90's romance films and your all-time celebrity crush is Ryan Phillippe circa his Sebastian Valmont days in Cruel Intentions—such fine taste, huh? Does that mean you have a thing for elite, money machine guys just like Sebastian? Does the thought of him put your panties in a twist? Because if so, I would die for you like he did for that blonde chick played by Reese Witherspoon in the film. No really, I would.

You're an only child, which explains the independence—okay things are starting to make sense here, Valentina. Also, you're a journalist and you write for The New York Times and your role model is "the one and the only" Sophia Amoruso and you want to be just like her.

These are the things I know about you so far, thanks to _vforvalentina.com—_ an obvious reference to _V for Vendetta_ —your very own personal blog, your _little corner of the internet—_ you said it right there on your About page. Don't blame me, it was the first thing that came up on Google.

Fuck, you are the ultimate dream girl, the epitome of the perfect girl—if there ever is such thing. You're everything every woman in the world wants to be and that makes me want to have you even more because why the fuck would I not want to have the best? You're the best of the bests, Valentina. You are.

But, unlike Beck, you have a private Facebook account and fuck that and in your Instagram you never post personal pictures but only of your books and really, there isn't any useful information I could find in there besides the type of books you're into but that's something I already know and I'm aware the classics are your favourite so what even is the use of your Instagram to me.

On Twitter, you mostly only tweet website links to current news or the latest editorial on NY Times and if you're not tweeting about politics and opinion articles you preach about feminism and women empowerment and that's about it. And again, unlike Beck, you never post about your whereabouts and you're really careful with what you put out online and fuck that because you're making this very difficult for me.

Sure you blog about "personal" things, you say, but they're only surface level of personal—your favourite books, favourite movie genre, your never-ending affection for SebastianfuckingValmont, and opinion on politics and women empowerment. How am I supposed to do business with that kind of information, Valentina? You tell me.

I got to give it to you, though, you really are smart. Social media is simply a job to you, a window for people to be able to glimpse at a closer look into your professional life. You branded the shit out of yourself online and I can see that.

You are undoubtedly intelligent and you want people to know it so you post these opinion articles on your blog—it's the main reason you even have a blog at all. You prefer brains over beauty (even though it's agreeable that you very much have both qualities, equally) and you want people to know that so you post photos of your books instead of your face on Instagram. You care about the world and you want people to know that so you tweet about news & politics most of the time. You're the hard-to-get type and you want people to know that so you have a private Facebook account.

This, however, makes you such a tease and this little teasing you're playing? It's fucking attractive, Valentina. I'm not even kidding I practically want to throw myself at you just to get to know you but no. No. No. No. _BenjiPeachBeckBenjiPeachBeck._ I'm not messing this up with you, Valentina. You're mine and I have to be good. For you.

But in order to do this I need to know actual personal stuff, okay? Do you understand? The deeper ones, the kind of information that seethe through the cells in your body and make up what you are.

At some point, I remember Ethan quitting his job after moving in with Blythe and I actually consider putting up a WANTED: HELP sign and hope you'd apply for the vacant position but then I remember you and your luxury, who am I kidding you would never in your whole damn life want to work at a bookstore no matter how much you love books. I know you know you're meant to explore your innermost potential and you know the world is waiting for you, ready to receive you and all the goodness you have to offer and I know you wouldn't be interested in working with me.

You're a fucking journalist at NY Times, for God's sake. Why would you want to give that up?

I know this because I'm not stupid and I'm going to find another way to get to you and I will. _I will_.

Valentina, see you tomorrow.


	3. Tolstoy

**WOULD** you look at that, happy Friday, Valentina. Today is the day that we see each other again and aren't you just excited because it is _the_ Friday and did you mark your calendar? Because I sure did and you better have yours marked or else.

I get up at exactly 5 a.m. today—just like you. You once wrote about your 5 a.m. daily routine on your blog and you said you love making time for your _morning pages_ and your avocado toast and you love doing your morning meditation to give you a head-start at the beginning of each day. You're my cute little routine freak.

 _5:08._ You're probably climbing out of bed, stretching your sleek arms and your slender petite legs and I wonder how it feels to get in between them? At this point you're most likely reaching out for your slippers, walking to the fridge to drink your morning glass of water before marching your way back to make your ( _our_ , real soon) bed. You're not messy because you're not like Beck, you like things organized because it's just the way you are.

At 5:30 after eating the omelet I made for myself I hop in on the shower and thought about the beads of water that could also be hitting your delicate skin as of the moment. Your Good Morning America voice rings in my head as I _rub one out_ to the thought of you possibly bathing your skin with the most luxurious bath salts and bath bombs girls love to use. I just know it and I just feel it that we're both in the exact same shower situation only in a different place.

The thought of you drives me nuts. We haven't even had our second meeting yet but Valentina, you already drive me crazy—crazier than the way Beck made me. You're so charming and your smile's disarming and it's now forever etched on my mind and I can't fucking stop thinking about you. What have you done to me? Your effect is worse than Beck and Candace put together but in the best way possible.

Was it the way you looked at me _thirty-eight hours and sixteen minutes ago_ when we were walking towards that Tartt novel over at the Fiction section? Was it the way your clanking heels lingered in my ears even after you were gone? Was it the way you smiled that lovely smile of yours? Or was it the sense of independence you possess? At this point I can't even tell.

My phone chimes just as I'm getting out of the shower and it's a tweet notification from you.

@VforValentina  
 _Joyce, I'm getting my hands on you today, therefore, hear me rejoice._

A scenario: Consider getting your hands on me today and I won't stop you and you don't even have to worry about being gentle because I can handle anything, Valentina.

But that tweet has got to be something, huh? It's 5:45 in the early morning and you're already thinking about getting that _Dubliners_ copy from my store—from me—which means you're thinking about me, too. You didn't have to think about the book I promised you, you could have been thinking about that article you have due today, or which meditation you want to do for the day, but no Valentina—you were thinking about the book.

You were thinking about us.

Once I'm done I grab the copy of _Dubliners_ that I specifically bought for you yesterday and placed it in my backpack and just look at the lengths I would go for you and all the things I'm willing to do just for you. I begin crafting a message to you.

_Hi, Ms. Valentina. The copies just came in today_

'Ms. Valentina', really, Joe?No. That's too formal.

_Hello, Ms. Laurent._

Now that makes me sound professional and I think I'm sticking with that.

_Copies of Dubliners just came in today, reserving one for you. See you._

Too friendly?

_Hello, Ms. Laurent, this is Mooney's. Copies of Dubliners just came in today, reserving one for you. We're hoping to see you today!_

Professional, simple, with a touch of customer service tone in it, nothing too personal—guess that will have to do. I hit send.

***

 **THE** more you're not here the more I want you to be. It's a little after five in the afternoon and why haven't you arrived just yet? Also, you haven't responded to my text so you better have a good reason or else this isn't going to work out, Valentina. I check your socials and you haven't posted anything after that Joyce tweet and you should be out of work by now considering the time of the day.

Ever since Beck, I told myself I was going to stop the excessive following around because I am not that guy anymore, I am a changed man Valentina, but if you're going to act like this then there's going to be exceptions to that.

I give you a chance and wait for another five minutes before looking your domain up on _who.is,_ a look-up site obviously made out of love because in just seconds—and thanks to your personal site _vforvalentina.com_ —there goes your address saying hello to me like it's been sitting there waiting around for me and a

A different number? Did you just give me a fake one while I thought we had something? One thing I learned from Beck, Valentina, is trust. If we don't have trust, we have nothing. What the fuck is this about?

 _Calm down, Joe. Calm. Down._ It could just be a mistake and I should not let my assumptions get the best of me because I trust you, Valentina, I do but somehow this is really getting the best of me and I _need_ to look for you so I take off my apron and grab my keys but before I manage to even make my way to the door, you walk in. With your clanking heels and a handbag on your arm you walk in here like you own the damn shop—exactly the way you did last time and you're so beautiful I mentally slap myself.

About fucking time, Valentina!

"Oh no, I'm so sorry were you just closing up? I thought you guys are open till—" you say, but my body's reacting in a really weird way so I cut you off.

"No! No, no, we're not. I was just thinking of running some errands but that can wait."

You smile and I smile back and for a second there I really felt a connection and I know you noticed it, too, Valentina because I see your eyes tinge a bit. I mean, I can't be imagining things.

Come on, you feel the tension, don't you? Because you definitely broke the silence by saying, "Hey, random question."

I smile a stupid smile yet again as I watch you slowly walk towards the counter and who knew that that bullshit they do in movies, lo and behold, is in fact true because now that you're here in front of me, everything around me— _us_ —just kind of blurs and slows down and suddenly you're all I see and _shit_ , you have a random question and I have to keep this going.

"Shoot."

"What's the longest book you've read?"

"Hmm, _Les Misérables_ , I think? Uh, the English translation," I say and I try to keep my cool. "You?"

"Impressive," you speak and my heart is full, "Mine's _IT_ by Stephen King." You lightly laugh or was that a giggle?

In an attempt to keep impressing you I pretend to act surprised, "Whoa, I would never expect you to go in for King. I picture you as a Proust kind of girl, or maybe Tolstoy. But Stephen King, and _IT_? That's amazing. Why do you ask anyway?"

You bite your lip and it reddens a little, "Well there was this couple in the Starbucks right below my building and they were both reading War and Peace but you can tell they're not actually reading it, they're just reading it for flirting purposes and for some reason they think it's cute to bond over Tolstoy and read that long of a book only for, I repeat, only for flirting purposes? I mean, this generation—can you believe it? The disrespect, _dude_."

Ouch. Dude. I'm _dude_. Dude-zoned. No no no this can't be happening.

"Yeah," I slightly laugh to acknowledge your story and now I'm trying not to stumble in between my words, "Can be crazy out there. The disrespect, indeed."

Now that I think of it, we can be that couple in cafes reading Tolstoy together and it would be romantic for us because we actually take literature seriously. Maybe that's how we'll spend our days after we drop our kids off to kindergarten.

"Anyway I'm sorry for the full-on rant I tend to do that when I'm really on the edge," you say and you can rant to me anyfuckingtime you need to, Valentina and you smile that polite smile as you inch even closer to the counter, "Did Joyce finally arrive?"

Your eyes are brown and warm and I'd get myself lost in them any time and your nose is angled perfectly and your cheeks seem so soft I'd love to touch them and would you let me and what Joyce who is Joyce—oh shit. James Joyce. The book.

"Oh—yeah, here," I fetch the book and hand it to you, "Don't worry about it, it's on the house."

I can't tell you I bought the book using my own money and it's not actually part of our inventory but it's too early and I can't let you in on stuff like that just yet. You have to wait and see.

"Oh goodness no," you say and you put your hand on mine in the most apologetic way possible and you didn't have to tease me like that but I'll bite and can we stay like this forever? "Let me pay for it, please."

"I insist. Think of it as a personal gift. From me to you."

"That's crazy, I can't let you lose a sale—"

"No, really, I insist."

You smile and take _Dubliners_ from my hand and your eyes tell me a thousand thanks for the "gift"—words weren't even necessary because we get each other—but you better get used to this because from now on I'll make sure to get you all the books you want and I got you.

"I can't thank you enough," you say and I want to hug you, "By the way, I got your text this morning it kind of just got over my head to text back I'm sorry."

Oh thank God it was a real number after all.

"Actually, it died this afternoon and I was wondering if I could charge it up a little here if it's okay with you? This is really embarrassing but do you guys have a free socket or something?"

"Of course, no problem."

"Ugh, my hero." Indeed, I'm always at your service, _m'lady_.

"There's this..." you pause, "Meeting I have to attend in two hours and I really just need my work phone for it." You hand me your phone and charger and I said I'd take care of it and you said it'll just be a while but then again, you may stay in here as long as you want, Valentina. You can charge your phone for as long as you want and I wouldn't bother at all.

You stumble over your words as you grab another phone from your bag and I figured your dead phone is your work phone, the one you ever so freely gave me contact to. Now you're holding what I assume is your personal phone and at this point I figure you're just as smart as you seem. Fuck. You give me your work phone number because you practically don't know me yet, can't trust me yet. Smart girl. But that's okay, I'll work for it and soon enough I'll be the top contact on your personal phone and just you wait.

"I'll just have a look around," you speak and proceed to walk towards the stacks, the literary fiction section. No one comes in and it's just the two of us and I wish I could freeze the time and stay right here in this moment, just like this. With me watching you browse books and I could listen to the clanking of your heels all day, at this point they're music to my ears.

Our little moment was interrupted when I hear your phone vibrate, meaning that it's back on and I make sure you aren't looking and I rush to it to check on as much information I can get. You have a Harry Potter wallpaper going on and it's an _adorable_ photo of Harry, Ron and Hermione and shit, you have a fucking passcode.

Then you get a text.

From a guy.

A fucking guy, and his fucking name is George. Who the fuck is this?

 _See you @ 7?_ 😉

See, this is where we're gonna have a problem, Valentina.


	4. You Little Socialite!

**BEFORE** you, there was Beck.

She had a guy once, too—Benji. _BenjiPeachBeckBenjiPeachBeck_. The old me would deal with George the same way I dealt with Benji but I have changed now, and I'm going to handle this in a civil, more gentleman-like way. When the day comes you'll be the one pushing George away and then we'll have our happy ever after, Valentina. But thoughts of George still get to me and I hate having to imagine you end up with someone like him and now I want to know more and I want to pull the hair out of my head and cry because I can't have you falling for someone that's not me.

"Excuse me, Valentina," I call you out and I try not to shake, but I really need you to unlock that fucking phone, "I think your phone's on and you got some messages. Might be important."

You look up from the books and scramble towards the back of the counter to your phone and I never allow people in here but for you there will be no boundaries. Thank God iPhones require the fucking passcode when you charge them after shutting down due to battery drainage. I watch you type in your passcode (it's 1216) and I already know why you specifically chose that numerical combination. December 16—it's your birthday and you're a Sagittarius. I'm glad that at least you don't have some asshole's birthday as your passcode, or worse, George's.

You've been staring at George's text for about a minute now and I pretend to count several bills as I watch your frustration (or hesitation? But why?) grow every second. It's not fun to anticipate what your reply will be but instead you lock your phone and smile at me, "Just my mom," (again with the explanation, Valentina, you don't have to explain anything to me because we're not supposed to be _that_ type of couple) you say, before walking back to the stacks. This time you grab Alexander Pushkin's poetry and settle on the ground and begin to read. Your eyebrows furrow and I can see that your mind's somewhere else and not on the pages you're supposed to be reading. Do you finally realize that you like me and not GeorgefuckingNobody?

I discreetly help myself to your phone and type 1216 and I'm in. I install a keylogger software (that's connected to my phone) in the backend so you don't notice. Heck, if you had a non-iPhone phone it would be easier to hide this fucker but I know my way around this shit. You also know how technology works because you have a website so coding and HTML are both a forte of yours so I have to be really careful. You have to remember that I'm only doing this to keep you safe, Valentina. I feel it is my responsibility to keep an eye on you and in the end you'll thank me—your protector, your knight in shining... apron.

When I'm done I put everything back the way I found them and you're still in the poetry stacks working your way through Pushkin. You don't make progress, though. I check my phone and make sure the keylogger software works and it does and now this is where it gets better. You have all your social media apps synced on your work phone as well so I won't be missing out on anything (I love you, you little socialite!) and whoever invented the cloud (Thanks!) definitely created the idea with love because now I'm logged on and I can read through all of your text messages and all of your e-mails!

You receive a text from this girl Lucy:

_WTF? Just say yes and see him! It's been two weeks and shit, you can't keep him waiting forever. Seriously, V._

She's probably referring to George and you write back (you're using your personal phone but again, I'm synced):

_I don't know, Lucy. I feel it makes things more special if I just make him wait for a little longer. Just this time. But I also, like, want to give it a go. Ugh, I'm a mess._

But Lucy's stubborn:

_So, what did you tell him? Don't tell me you actually straight up said no?_

To which you write back:

_Lol I haven't even responded to his text yet. Is that bad?_

And there she goes again:

_Uh, duh, you tease! Just go and give him a chance, you'll never know unless you actually give this first date a try._

First date, huh? So that means I'm on the clear because he's not your boyfriend and I still stand a chance (mentally throws my fist midair). I'm no friendship genius but Lucy here thinks she knows you damn well but she doesn't, Valentina, I swear. From the look on your face as I watch you switch between Pushkin and your phone I can see you're thinking twice about replying to her text because you think she's too pushy, too persuasive for you. You give up and shut the book close and put it back on the shelf and you gather your handbag and you stand up and march up towards the counter to fetch your phone.

"Gotta run, thanks for being kind enough to let me charge my phone. I really needed it." You say and I can easily see through your eyes the painful situation you got yourself caught in to and believe me, I want to wrap my arms around you right now and help you ease the discomfort you feel, but we're not on that level yet and this is killing me but until then: self-control. I want to stop you from leaving and I'll lean over and say, " _Sorry, miss, but your presence is required tonight. You must stay because we have some... business to do_." You'll look up at me and wear that pretty fucking smile. " _Let's see... Maybe I'll do as you say and fulfil my requirement._ " And then you'll pause. " _If you insist, then let's get deep down to business._ Dude."

Someone comes into the shop and I finally manage to snap myself back to earth, "No problem. Always."

 _Always._ I'll always think of you. I'll always watch over you. I'll always protect you. I'll always listen to you. I'll always care for you. I'll always be here for you, Valentina.

"And also, thanks again for _Dubliners_ ," you pause. You take one good look on my name tag as if you hadn't already done that before and then. "You're a great guy, _Joe_."

You smile at me with that lovely smile of yours and head towards the door and you don't say goodbye which could be intentional and you might be coming back to see me again. You left me with those final words: _You're a great guy, Joe_. I like my name better coming out from your lips and did you just say that I'm a _great guy_? Not just a good guy, but a _great_ guy? This isn't some weird imagination shit I just came up with. This is real.

I am a great guy.

***

 **THERE** it is, your home sweet home (Thanks again _Who.Is Domain Lookup_!): HELENA 57 WEST, right in the middle of New York City. And since this is basically your world, and basically your home, I have to do my end of the bargain and perform a general ocular. The things I do for you, Valentina. Really. You'd get on your knees down on the floor thanking me.

It's no secret and there's no doubt that this is a glorious neighborhood and obviously it's packed with your fellow elites and are you fucking kidding me? I can't just be hanging out in here looking like _this._ Note to self, hit up the thrift store tomorrow and buy some pretentious suit. But hey, I get it Valentina, I swear I do. I see why you like it here. You adore your luxury and you're high maintenance and you're fully aware that this particular crowd is _your_ crowd. You know what you want and you claim what you deserve. But then again, that hinders my obligation of watching over you because this is a huge 38-fucking-story tower, Valentina. And you live on the 17th. Again—you have to cooperate if we both want things to work out between us. But that's okay, we'll get through this one step at a time.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and it's a notification from the keylogger and you just got a text message from the all-knowing and the magnificently spectacular genius, George.

_Hey, everything okay? See you in a bit, I guess?_

You reply, quick:

 _George, I' m so sorry but an emergency write-up came up and I suddenly have deadlines, we're gonna have to postpone tonight. I feel bad and I'm really sorry_ ☹

Excuses, excuses. You don't have an "emergency write-up", you sweet little liar. Though I can't say that I'm not proud of this, because I am and it's exactly what I would've told you to say to him if only you'd have asked me a few hours ago at the shop. But of course you already know this because you understand, you do. Attagirl!

I take one good look around your neighborhood, your _terra firma,_ before making my way back to my own side of New York. As much as I would love to camp out and be with you and accompany you into the night, I have to strategize my physical presentation and fit in. But until then, you're Juliet, _over there_ , and I'm Romeo, _over here_ , and we return to the most beautiful thing that is the Internet and I can't wait to get to know you even more.

Our friend George interrupts again:

 _Oh, I understand. Well, just let me know once your schedule frees up._ ☺️

Thank God you don't reply. Instead, you text Lucy:

_Oh my goodness I feel bad, I made excuses and we're not seeing each other tonight. Kill me now, but like, also don't. I don't know what to do. The longer the wait the more I'm liking it and I'm actually confused. Send help._

She texts back, what a patient friend:

_LOL, THE SEXUAL FRUSTRATION, V. I can feel it here from over there!!!_

For a moment there you got me thinking and I start feeling anxious in all of the places. You don't tell Lucy about me. Don't you girls always talk about _that cute guy you must have seen somewhere_ because I sure noticed a fair amount of that sort of thing between Beck and her bitch friends. You write too much and talk too much to not be fussing about me. I am a great guy—you said it yourself. Don't make me doubt it.

One possible theory: What we have is special and you'd rather keep me in your private life. You want to protect that privacy we share and you want me all to yourself and to yourself only because we are _that_ couple. Hey, I don't mind. I'm right where you want me. And maybe that theory is just as real as it gets because you have just published a new entry on your blog. A little life update, as you call it.

You write about your week and how work has been treating you and you love your job despite the unending deadlines. In fact, you are so fond of the idea of a deadline and you say that it helps keep you grounded. Your current read is Virginia Woolf's _Orlando_ , you do a love good quality literature. Not that I didn't expect this of you because I already know you prefer hardcore literature and I wonder what other hardcorethings you prefer just as much.

The good news is George seems to have gotten out of the way now, as of the moment, that is. Because in tonight's blog post you suddenly talk about _Dubliners_ and that only means you're thinking about me and our little bookstore shenanigan. I fantasize about you in nothing but a shirt and your panties (I don't know if you do this but I fucking hope you do) on your couch right about now, and you're up in your little Verona tower in the 17th floor, with my copy of _Dubliners_ on your right hand and you feel my presence in that little book in your fucking hand and you better have your other hand down there doing you-know-what because you deserve this and I deserve to be with you as you do this, my attendance to your sweet performance only in the manifestation of that book I got for you. I am that book. For now, _I am that book_. And I'm watching you.

My, my, love can only take my imagination too far but I'm not complaining and I'd love to fill my mind even more with thoughts of you. I reread your post once more and it's ironic how you, little Capulet, are over there and even in your absence you hold me captive with the words you have managed to put together into one sleek blog post. They are your words on my computer screen, and I'm over here, but in front of your article as I read _your_ words I feel you right here beside and every single fucking word touches me and your hands soothe my skin and I take you in.

I _rub one out_. Release. Finally.


End file.
